


Last Requests

by Pande



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes - fandom, john watson - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Grave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:58:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pande/pseuds/Pande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson's visit to his best friend's grave, a place of mocking ghosts and whispering leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Requests

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted at my FFN account: CassInMyAss
> 
> This takes place after the last episode of season two of BBC Sherlock.

His fingers curled on the smooth black granite that made up the unfilled grave of his best frien- no, his truest friend. His face contorted with tears that he would never allowed to fall, no, because He would only make fun of poor Dr. Watson. John's eyes closed tightly as he struggled to control his emotions.

_"_ _Crying over my grave, is it, John?"_

His smooth, arrogant voice would say to John. There would be that cocky half-smile and a crinkle of those too-blue eyes and John would suddenly feel like a blithering idiot. But a wonderful blithering idiot. So he didn't cry, he didn't make any of those pathetic gasping noises he knew Sherlock would hate and taunt him for. Watson acknowledged in that moment that he would never, ever be over Sherlock's death. 

Instead he lifts up his head, eyes red and filled with tears he just wouldn't allow to fall. _Couldn't_ allow to fall. John holds his head up high because - you know what - he had been the best friend of the smartest man to ever walk this earth. He tilted his blonde head down to regard the grave his friend's ... corpse ... resided in. Here lay a man so smart, he could fool Death if he was bored enough.

 _"_ _Well of course I could,"_ that smooth, arrogant voice again.

Watson's head snapped up painfully, a glance to the right, left, full hundred-eighty. No one. "Sherlock?" He took pride in the fact that his voice did not crack or stumble.

 _"_ _You idiot, if I had wanted to fool Death, would I let you see me?"_ His voice would have been as taunting as a cat's. Silky, but edged with a careless firmness. It broker no complaining and any other opinions were irrelevent and stupid.

Watson's mouth opened slightly, "Yes."

 _"_ _Fair enough."_ An embarrassed pause.

A dry laugh. Watson's. It sounded so hollow and bitter.

_"_ _Nothing can kill me, so just you wait, John Watson. I'l_ _l be back, and when I turn up on Baker Street again, oh, the games we shall have."_

Watson shook his head, "Then, stop all this. For me. Preform a miracle, okay Sherlock? One miracle just for me, show yourself right now."

But only the whisper of the wind in the leaves met his silence.


End file.
